A grocery store. Moi waits in line near a showcase of books. He reads the titles aside to the audience:
Moi, aside: Oh, these books look wonderful! Wow! Here we have a book entitled “Adolescents: how to diminish your teenager’s resentment of you as much as possible.” I love the mixture of How To and pseudo-psychology! And here’s another title: “The Portuguese Economy: a tragicomedy written in iambic pentameter..” Haha, no doubt this book will put the reader to sleep before the reader can prop up his feet—which is the mark of a good book, and why I have so many good books next to my bed—and why I am always sleeping in my shoes. Oh, and here’s a wonderful title: “Sex Island: a humid tropical memoir.” I don’t dare touch the book for fear of the dampness, and god only knows what noxious vapors will rise out of those humid pages and infect my lungs with a debilitating, graveyard cough. Humid is the wrong word: funky, boggy, goat-like. Cheese. A blue cheese. “Cheese Island: a memoir with tang, zip, and a horrid, oozing, body-odor smell of blue cheese.” Oh, god; I have to get out of this market. I should write a book called, “How to stand in line waiting to die: an existential memoir.” No, I have it: a coloring book entitled: “How to distract yourself doing meaningless stress-reducing tasks so that you can cope with violent stress-causing tasks necessary for buying stress-reducing coloring books like this one.” Oh, yes, that’s a good title. That has Capitalism’s name all over it. If sex sells, I don’t see why existential crisis can’t sell, too, and who doesn’t like a sarcastic existential crisis? A horrid, oozing existential crisis!
The end.